


Howl

by ectothermal



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Dubious Consent, Ghost Sex, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Open to Interpretation, as in he died i guess, depending how you wanna read it, its kinda like paranormal activity-esque, or just regular, ship-wise anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 04:12:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11455728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ectothermal/pseuds/ectothermal
Summary: have u ever wanted to bang a ghost? same bitch





	Howl

**Author's Note:**

> this is just a smutty scene of a larger work that i've been planning but just don't have the energy to execute so everything that goes into this universe will be compiled into a series. 
> 
> this doesn't wrap up nicely at all and i'm sorry. hope you enjoy!

Credence wakes with the drop of his stomach, with the crushing weight on top of him that makes it hard to breathe. He can't move - he tries to lift his hands to rub the haze of sleep from his eyes and he finds them not paralyzed like each time this has happened to him before, but pinned. Solidly, too, heavy knees digging hard into the bones of his wrists. Despite the solid weight, the figure above him is barely visible, not even a true silhouette in the darkness but a mere suggestion of form. The shadow man is supposed to have a hat, Credence remembers the nightmarish man so clearly - this isn't the same. He strains for understanding through the fog of waking, the shock of waking like _this_ \- the shadow man feels like magic. He feels familiar, the way it feels when he uses the board, the way it used to feel with fingers pressing firm into the tension in the back of Credence's neck.

"Mr. Graves," he gasps, voice sleep-rough and cracking. He knows the shadow can't speak to him, not traditionally, but he swears he can hear the glottal click of a "K" and the hiss of an "S" in the silence between them. Credence. He said Credence.

The panic of not knowing leaves Credence all at once, tension bleeding out as he lets his body sink into his worn, uncomfortable mattress. There's no reason that Mr. Graves' hands should feel so real, but they're as firm and warm as they ever were, mapping the dip between each of his ribs, rough thumbprints brushing sensitive nipples through the fabric of Credence's pajamas, making him twitch underneath Mr. Graves' weight.

Perhaps he's more like the man with the hat than Credence thought.

With Mr. Graves' thumbs drawing teasing circles around the peaks of his nipples, the ghost of his hot mouth against the pale, soft skin of his neck, it's too easy for Credence to close his eyes and pretend the man is really there, in the flesh; that he could impart more than heat and pressure in his contact, that he could press his tongue and fingers and cock inside him, that Credence could touch him back and make him feel just as good. It's not enough. It will never be enough and it will never be fair, but Credence shudders soft sounds out of his chest with his want for more.

"My - my hands, Mr. Graves," he whispers, soft and nervous, a little self-conscious of talking into the darkness but so _sure_ that he can feel the scratch of the man's five o'clock shadow against his cheek as his jaw moves that he can't be imagining this; his fingers flex to keep from going numb under his weight. "Let me undress. For you." The weight shifts, one hand spread wide across Credence's abdomen as the pressure of knees lifts from his wrists and nestles instead between spread thighs.

The boy's fingers tremble over familiar buttons in his hurry to shed the soft, worn shirt, the cool night air raising goosebumps across his chest as it falls open. He lifts up to slide it off his shoulders - it makes it only halfway down his arms before Mr. Graves shoved him back into the mattress with renewed force, a growl rumbling like thunder in the tiny room. A shudder runs through Credence, elbows trapped at his sides again, fingers reaching to push his pajama pants down despite the restriction. He gives up once he manages to free his cock, half-hard, from his waistband; Mr. Graves' touch finds him immediately, making him jump, drawing a whimper from his throat.

He can only imagine how he must look - rumpled, half-dressed, legs open wide like a whore and cock heavy and hard against his stomach, his awkwardly grown-out hair sticking every which way and clinging to his face with his sweat. With desperate moans pouring steadily from his pink, slack mouth, Mr. Graves' mouth on his chest and his hand on his cock, Credence thinks he might even look beautiful like this, invisibly manipulated by his shadow man - his protector.

And, God, the _sounds_ Mr. Graves makes, big and haunting like howls of wind or claps of thunder, seeming to draw up all the energy in the room only to explode outward again from an unidentified point - from everywhere and nowhere. Credence feels surrounded by him, overwhelmed as his back bows under Mr. Graves' attentions.

Anyone else would be frightened - anyone else _should_ be frightened. Not Credence, who could swallow up all of Graves' wild energy and not burst, but thrive. Even now, it feels like electricity, like a constant current of energy between them for as long as they have contact. He never wants this to end, this little haven of electric pleasure in the loneliness, but he can feel heat building fast, low in the cradle of his hips, can hear his own noises growing higher and more desperate.

"Mr. Graves," he sobs, urgent, hips rolling unsteadily up into the spirit's pressure; he weight above him shifts. Mr. Graves' entire body bears down on him, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, cock to cock - Credence gasps as their hips slide together, Graves as warm and real, as heavy and hard as he had ever imagined. Pressure finds his throat, a big, firm hand cutting off his breath - it's enough to shove Credence over the edge, free-falling through his orgasm, mouth open but soundless and he spills over his own stomach.

Just like that, everything stops. The pressure lifts, the hot chill dissipates. All that's left is the sticky, cooling mess on Credence's stomach. He's not sure he didn't imagine it after all.

"Mr. Graves?" he asks, tentative in the new and eerie silence where his ears had just been full of the sound of power. Nothing. Silence. Disappointed, he lays his head back onto his pillow with a huff of breath.

But then - he hears it. The k. The s. He's sure this time. Mr. Graves said his name.

Credence.


End file.
